


any port in a storm, but only one place to call home

by tielan



Category: Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something in her holds him fast, like the last line connecting a ship to shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any port in a storm, but only one place to call home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



_A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman!_

_He ought not—He does not!_

 

Frederick doesn’t expect to see her in the candlelit shadows of the shop, and so is unprepared for the sight of her. It shakes his certainty, like a cannonball to the gunwhales in a fog – an unexpected broadside, which the sight of her shouldn’t be.

She is why he’s here in Bath, after all.

Discomfort settles on him like an ill-fitting coat. After everything that has gone before, the years of separation, his pride and careful politeness among the Musgroves, and the last month at his brother’s, wondering if he had accidentally bound himself to a woman who would never be Anne’s equal had she twice the years, he doesn’t know where to start. Only that he must.

He doesn’t stammer, but the conversation is…awkward. Unpolished. Mortification is his companion, with none of the distance he managed at Uppercross. And yet she is gracious and courteous, making appropriate inquiries, giving animated responses, and truly caring about the Musgroves, about the Harvilles, about Edward, while her sister and her companion speak among themselves and ask no introduction.

The carriage comes – the Dalrymples for Miss Elliot – and yet Anne doesn’t go with her sister and the companion.

Hope grows within his breast, the opportunity to be of assistance.

“Thought I came only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath already ,you see.”

Her smile is softer, slower than the girl he loved, and yet the appreciation of wit is still there. And if she will not take his arm and his company, will she not let him call a chair? Some small courtesy he can perform her betokening a greater courtesy he would present her with the smallest encouragement.

But encouragement is not to be.

“I am only waiting for Mr. Elliot.” Apology tinges her tone. “He will be here in a moment, I am sure.”

The cousin with the carriage at Lyme, Frederick thinks, and then is confronted by the reality – an elegant man of town, poised and intimate with Anne. Polite and proprietary as he offers her his arm, with the air of a privateer who has the wind in his favour and the knowledge of this shoreline.

Anne goes, although not without one look back, her gaze dark and steadfast before she steps out into the rain-washed street.

It is enough for a little hope – any port in a storm of jealousy that is only whipped up by the winds of gossip.

“One can guess what will happen there. He is always with them; half lives with the family, I believe.”

The admiration of a stranger is one thing; the intimacy of a relation – and the heir to the baronetcy – something else.

But that last look holds him, like the last line to the shore

* * *

Sophy and Edward always laughed at his impetuosity as a child. Sophy laughs still, although these days Edward regards him with a look more of chiding than of amusement.

That spirit carried him and his men through the war, brought him advancement and wealth.

Still, he is prepared to walk past her and her family at the concert, to say nothing more than the most polite of greetings. Instead, it is she who steps up to him, who speaks to him and prompts the conversation, who makes the connexion when her family stands behind her, until they – finally – acknowledge the acquaintance, however reluctantly.

Frederick has never wanted for courage; and yet hers puts him to shame.

He broaches the topic of Benwick and Louisa, watches her face as she answers, disposed to think well of them, to give the couple the best of hopes.

If he knew Benwick just a little less, thought less of his intellect and cleverness, he might agree with her. But Louisa Musgrove, young and willful as she was, is not the match for his friend that Fanny Harville would have been.

 _Sometimes,_ Benwick once said, when speaking of Fanny, _love strikes but once; that perfect collation of all that is in you with all that is in her. You have known this, Frederick, haven’t you?_

At the time, his admission had been reluctant, drawn from him under duress.

Now, he knows he has.

Her family responsibilities draw her away – always and ever what lies between them. The family who thought him not worth their daughter and sister, the friend who advised her against accepting him, the cousin whose interest is in every glance, every touch, every word.

He listens to the music, but he watches her.

“You’re acquainted with the Elliots?” Harry Borland inquires. “Aren’t Croft and your sister living near them or some such?”

“They’re tenants of the house. The Elliots vacated it to come here.” Frederick forces himself to look away as she turns her head to regard him. The furtiveness of his gaze disquiets him, although he doesn’t quite know why. “And the connection is old.”

Harry claps him on the shoulder – a comradely hit that holds amusement. “And yet not so long ago that you’ve rolled up your sails, eh?”

Mortification is an unpleasant sensation; a man of the sea should be better at trimming his sails to the wind. Still, surrounded by so many who have no reason to encourage him, why should he hope that Anne has learned to think otherwise?

And yet, when he pauses to speak with her, she is animated, agreeable, encouraging. His hope is not misplaced, his interest is not unreturned; he contemplates the seat beside her, boldness warring with caution—

Her cousin touches her shoulder, draws her away, claims her attention.

Yet again Frederick is reminded that he has no supporters among her intimate circle; his only commendation is what he can bring to bear of himself. And in that, even, he is thwarted by a rival who has all the advantages – the approbation of her relatives, the intimacy of her personal circle, the charm of a townsman.

It is an unbearable thought, to have discovered himself free to court Anne Elliot after fearing he might be honour-bound to Louisa Musgrove, only to be thwarted by the interest of her cousin, the clear preference of her family.

He cannot stay and watch. The spirit that carried him through storm and battle alike cannot hold up against the emotion that beats against him. Even her entreaty to remain cannot stay him; she was swayed once before – how can she not be swayed again? 

* * *

To love longest, after all hope of return is gone?

Does she speak of herself, or only in the general? He yearns to believe it is her personal experience, as a man longs for the sight of the shores home, but his hopes denied might sink him beyond revival. He has loved, loves even now – can she doubt it? Yes, perhaps, when faced with the opposition of her family, with the ardent appeal of her cousin.

And yet love is not merely contingent the return, as though the only value was in her affections; she is a woman of intelligence and taste, well-appreciated by her friends even if her family fails to see her worth.

He pens the letter, that recklessness filling him that took the privateers in the West Indies, that impetuosity of spirit that carried him through the war, that passionate fervour that made him offer for the daughter of a baronet when her family cried nay. She is Anne Elliot; if he is nothing to her, then she will never cast it before him.

Frederick walks out with his gloves, having drawn her attention to his letter. The wind is stirring his sails, he knows not where it sends him until he sees her with her brother, walking up Union St. He forces himself towards them, his navigation uncertain.

Her gaze lifts to him; the compass settles north.

 


End file.
